


In a Hushed, Ice-Clear Trance

by RileyC



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's early in the partnership, and Holmes and Watson have been summoned to the north of England by Lestrade who isn't quite satisfied with how a case has turned out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Hushed, Ice-Clear Trance

Bleeding, battered, and half-frozen, Holmes and I now faced the prospect of being informed there was no room at the inn. For some, perhaps, that might be considered a humorous circumstance to experience at the Christmas season. I don't believe either of us was much of a mind to be amused at the moment, however.

~*~

It was the winter of 1883, and Holmes and I had been on our way back to London, after having been called in to assist Inspector Lestrade with the matter of the disappearance of Lord Robert Montjoy and his manservant, David Ballard.

Lord Robert was a strikingly handsome man not yet forty, distinguished by both his efforts to better the lives of the less fortunate and for his adventures that took him, and Ballard, to the exotic ends of the earth. Lord Robert had been a tremendously romantic figure, and expectations were that his star would rise to the highest position in the land. His marriage to Lady Anne, herself from a distinguished family, was seen as an excellent match, and the only disappointment was that so attractive a couple had not been blessed with children.

News that he and Ballard had disappeared had been troubling enough. When, some days later, Lady Anne was charged with having murdered both men and disposing of their bodies, the shock had been tremendous.

Reading of it in the papers, I had asked Holmes his opinion. _"I cannot theorize without facts, Watson," _was all that he would offer on the affair, though I could tell he was chafing to be in a position to learn more.

With Lady Anne refusing to say anything more and Scotland Yard apparently satisfied with their solution, however, that had looked unlikely. Providence intervened, in the form of a telegram from Lestrade, confessing there was something about the matter that left him uneasy, and asking if Holmes could see it in his way to come have a look at things.

That had been two days ago; this morning we had been able to place the solution to the whole matter before him.

~*~

Inspector Lestrade gaped at Sherlock Holmes. "You mean to say they aren't even dead?"

"They are not, Inspector." Reaching into his coat, Holmes withdrew an envelope, addressed to Lady Anne Montjoy and postmarked from Liverpool, a fortnight past. "Lord Montjoy and Mr. Ballard are alive, and quite well, in New York City, as we speak."

"Well I'll be bowled." Seated beside us in the railway station, Lestrade took off his hat, worrying it between his hands. He trained a wary look on the envelope. "What's it say, then?"

Holmes proffered it to him. "I think it best you read it for yourself."

Eyeing it as though expecting it to bite, Lestrade sighed with resignation and, setting his hat on the table, took it from Holmes and drew forth two sheets of paper. _"My dearest Anne," _he read, with some embarrassment, _"What I have to tell you is going to be a tremendous shock, and I do regret it, but you deserve the truth. I believe you know the truth, deep down, but let me state it clearly: David and I love each other…"_ His voice trailed off, and blushing a bit, Lestrade hurried through the rest of it silently. "Well, and she'd go to the gallows rather than have this get about."

"I suspect the lady believed some intervention would present itself before that eventuality became reality."

Lestrade sighed, shook his head. "So he just runs off with his manservant and leaves his wife to look like a fool. Not what you'd call honorable, now is it?"

"Do honor and love ever have much to do with each other?" Holmes said.

"One would like to think so, Holmes," I said in mild rebuke. "It was badly done, though." There was no denying that, although my sympathies were divided between both parties. To pretend to love one person, when your heart is given to another - such a thing can only be intolerable. "Perhaps the lie they were forced to live became too much to bear."

Holmes gave me a thoughtful look, and I wondered what clues he was taking note of, and what they told him. He addressed himself to Lestrade, however. "What action will you take?"

"What action can I take?" Lestrade said, sounding resentful of the whole business now. "There's been no crime. Well, no murder, certainly," he amended, as though recollecting that the very nature of Montjoy's and Ballard's relationship was deemed illegal. He shook his head, shoved the letter in a pocket, and retrieved his hat. "Well, I do apologize, Mr. Holmes, for getting you and Dr. Watson up here on this nonsense."

With surprising magnanimity, Holmes waved his apologies away. "How could you know, when the lady was so determined no one should? Don't trouble yourself about it, Lestrade."

"You gentlemen will be returning to London, then?"

"We will," I said with feeling. The Yorkshire moors and dales were, in any other season, rich with charm and appeal; in the bleak depths of an icy winter, however, there was very little to invite one to linger. Not that London would be much warmer, but it had, at least, the allure of being home. "And yourself, Inspector?"

"I daresay I shall be here another day or two, sorting this all out. Damn fool business, this, and I don't mind telling you gentlemen that," Lestrade said, getting to his feet. "All for vanity's sake."

"I think it was a little more than that, Inspector," I said.

"Well, perhaps you're right, Doctor," he said, and sighed. "Well…" He touched the brim of his hat. "Good day and safe traveling then, gentlemen. We'll see each other soon enough, I expect."

Had some sudden foresight prompted him to wish us a safe journey? No, it seemed unlikely; Holmes certainly would have scoffed at the notion. I think I might have appreciated a word of warning, however.

~*~

With Holmes in an uncommunicative mood, and the arctic landscape past the window a dismal and monotonous one, I dozed as the train bore us back to London. My awakening was a rude one: Holmes, something nearly frantic in his voice, calling my name as the whole world tumbled and fell away amid the sounds of shrieking machinery and human screams.

We had crashed, I realized, attempting to clamber to my feet with the railway car twisted nearly on its side. Holmes, latching onto my hand, helped me, hauling me to out into the open where we could see the wreck - cars strewn along the track, passengers moving about in an almost aimless way, some too shocked to truly realize what had happened. Later, we would discover a landslide of snow, rock, and earth had fallen across the tracks, and the blowing snow had prevented the engineer from seeing it and being able to stop the train in time.

At the time, however, all I knew was that people were injured, and it was essential to act at once.

Shortly after the first adventure Holmes and I shared, that study in scarlet, I had made it a habit to always bring my medical bag, as well as my service revolver, whenever we were called away from London. Barring one other incident, I had never been more grateful for that particular foresight than in this instance.

"I have to help them, Holmes," I said, gratified that he made no attempt to protest, and instead merely asked what he could do to help.

Our work was swift, some others of our fellow travelers lending a hand as well. There were five fatalities, perhaps three more whose recovery depended upon them receiving more thorough care than I could offer in the circumstances, but on the whole the casualties consisted primarily of minor cuts and bruises and a few broken bones.

Help arrived from a nearby villages; transport provided to an assortment of establishments and private homes that offered shelter. Holmes and I were deposited at the - aptly named it seemed - World's End Inn at the furthest edge of the hamlet. It was dark, cold, snow still lashing away at us, and the innkeeper was having a debate with his wife as to whether or not they had any lodging to offer these last two stragglers on their doorstep.

"Well," his wife said, eying us both up and down, "there's the attic room. There's a good double bed and a fire."

"I'm sure it will be quite satisfactory," Holmes said. "And hot water?"

"That'll cost you extra."

"We'll pay it gladly," I said, willing to pay a king's ransom for hot water and a fire right then.

Terms agreed upon, the woman - Nell, she told us, her husband being Norris - escorted us to the chamber in question, telling us Norris would be along with the hot water shortly, and saying there wasn't much left in the kitchen but she expected she could locate a pot of tea and some sandwiches. That, too, would cost extra.

"Delightful to discover our English countryside rife with Good Samaritans," Holmes remarked as Nell departed and we took stock of our room.

It was cramped, and in other circumstances would have possessed no inviting qualities. Just then, however, it looked as luxurious as anything Buckingham Palace might offer.

We had the fire going by the time Norris arrived with the hot water, Nell right behind him with a tray of the promised tea and sandwiches. I thanked them for their hospitality, ignored Holmes' sarcastic snort, and bid them a good night.

~*~

"Oww!" Holmes protested as I applied antiseptic to a bad scratch along one cheekbone.

"Oh, do stop fussing. I've seen you injured far worse than this."

"I believe your bedside manner was rather better on that occasion."

"Yes, well, I was far less tired, and _you_ were considerably less conscious. There," I said, satisfied he would survive, and turning my attention to my own small scrapes.

"Physician, heal thyself?" Holmes said as I stood before the shabby old dresser, examining my face in the spotted mirror.

"Very little healing required, I think," I said. My worst injury was a sore shoulder, from being smashed about our compartment. At some point it seemed I had acquired a scrape along my jaw, and a scratch just above my left eyebrow. Hot water and soap would suffice for me, I believed, but before I could reach for a clean cloth, Holmes was there before me. Dipping a cloth into the basin of clean, hot water, he wet it, squeezed out the excess moisture, and began carefully dabbing at my jaw.

Taken by surprise, I held absolutely still, hardly even breathing as he administered to me. It was impossible to ask that he stop, and yet equally intolerable that he should continue. His solicitude was not unwelcome, very much the opposite - that, in fact, was the problem.

I had been careful, in these many months now of sharing lodgings with him, to indulge in few moments of yearning for more than friendship between us, and none that he could have been aware of. He could put away his mask of cool detachment in my presence, reveal this other side to me, because he trusted me. That was too valuable to risk for a romantic attachment that would never be requited. And it was not as though I felt cheated in anyway. To be Sherlock Holmes' trusted friend was no small honor.

As he cleaned the scratch over my eye, I did, however, find myself thinking it might have been pleasing to offer him such proof as I possessed that honor and love did, indeed, intertwine.

"There, that's got it, I think," Holmes said, setting the cloth down.

"Yes, thank you." I turned away from his scrutiny, only to find him reflected with me in the mirror.

For a moment I allowed myself to remark that we did make a striking pair. For an instant my thoughts strayed to an image of awakening together, his darker head resting near mine on a shared pillow, our bodies entangled - I blinked and banished it, moving away from him, those narrowed gray eyes watching me far too intently.

Standing at the window, I looked out at the snow-washed night. "Will this storm never end?" I murmured, for a moment feeling as bleak as the landscape.

~*~

Nell had said the bed was a good one, and in this she had been honest. Yet, though the mattress was an adequate one, I had anticipated a restless night spent being much too aware of Holmes so close beside me. We had been that intimate before, but not after such a case, with so many feelings stirred up.

As it happened, though, my head scarcely touched the pillow before sleep claimed me, Holmes a warm and comforting presence beside me. It was the cold that woke me; icy drafts working through unseen cracks and lowering the already cool temperature. The wind had stopped, I realized, and hoped that boded well for the snow abating.

Pulling the covers closer for warmth, I realized the space beside me was empty, and ran a hand along the cold sheets. "Holmes?" I called, turning to find him crouched before the fire, adding more coal. "I'm sure that will cost extra."

"No doubt. Rather worth it, however," he said.

I watched him there in the fire's faint light, moving to stand before the window, almost a shadowy figure in his nightshirt and bare feet. "Come back to bed, Holmes. You'll catch your death."

"It's stopped snowing," he said, as if he hadn't heard me.

"That's a blessing at least. Shall we be able to leave in the morning, do you think?"

"That, I suspect, is somewhat more problematic." Holmes turned to look at me. "Is the prospect of being marooned here so distressing?"

"Distressing?" I shook my head. "Hardly that."

"You find the company agreeable?"

I sat up, trying to puzzle him out. "Very agreeable. Holmes--"

"Forgive me," he said. "I am finding it difficult to let go of this case."

"You solved it. What else is there?"

Black brows knitted, he traced an abstract pattern on the frosted window pane. "Understanding why it happened, I suppose." Turning away from the window, he approached the bed. "You spoke of an unbearable lie, Watson. What did you mean?"

I shook my head, wary of this conversation now. "That," I hesitated, speaking slowly, working out my thoughts, "a kind of desperation must build up, when your heart is given to one whom society has forbidden you to love. All the little things a lawful couple might indulge in with no fear of censure - a look, a touch of hands - is denied you, and…greater intimacies can only be had in secret, turned into something furtive and clandestine, always with the fear of being found out…" I shook my head again, certain I could claim no coherence. "It must be maddening, driving one to reckless action."

He sat on the mattress edge, watching me. "Have you loved, Watson?"

Of all the things he might have asked me, that was one I could not have prepared for. "I have."

"In all honesty?"

"As far as I was able."

Holmes looked away from me, sighed. "I am nearly thirty years of age, Watson, and don't believe I have ever known love."

"I doubt that can be true, Holmes."

"I assure you, it is. It," his lean shoulders lifted in a shrug, "it never seemed important. I came to believe it would always be an impenetrable mystery to me." He looked at me then. "I no longer deem that to be true."

Perhaps I _am_ dense-headed and slow of wit, for the significance of his words eluded me completely. "You don't?" I said, dully. Who had captured his heart then? Did I truly want to know? "Should I tender my congratulations?"

"I suppose," he spoke carefully, gaze locked upon my face, "that depends upon you, my dear Watson." The gesture so tentative, so lacking his customary confidence and savoir faire it made me ache for him, Holmes reached to touch my hand; his long, white fingers, cold and uncertain, only just grazing my skin. "Have I deduced correctly?"

I swallowed. "How did I betray myself, Holmes?"

His smile then was one I had rarely seen, a tender yearning that usually only revealed itself when he was playing his violin. "In almost every word and gesture, my friend. Although I do flatter myself that only I have noticed."

Well, I supposed that was gratifying; at least I wasn't so transparent in my regard for him that even Lestrade could observe it. "All this time, you never said anything."

"I didn't know, Watson, not all this time. I," he stopped, shook his head, looking away from me, "I don't believe I wanted to know." He glanced back at me, something wry and rueful in his look. "Can you forgive me?"

Turning my hand up to clasp his, our palms pressed together, I felt a tremor of shock course through him. Smiling at him, I said, "Oh yes, I do believe I can." There was little, I suspected, that I would not forgive him.

His hand rested quiet and easy in mine. I moved slightly, stroking my fingers along his palm. He gasped, gray eyes wide in a pleasurable shock.

"Watson..."

I raised his hand to my mouth, pressed my lips to the sensitive underside of his wrist, tasting his pulse. His breath caught again, but he made no move to withdraw and, growing bolder, I darted the tip of my tongue against the soft flesh, the junction of veins, his pulse leaping wildly against my lips.

Raising my eyes to his, seeing fear and excitement mingled in his, I asked, "Shall I stop?"

He gave me a startled look, for one eternal moment warring with himself. Then, reaching out to touch my face, leaning in closer, he said, "No, not just yet," as he kissed my lips.

I drew him with me down to the bed, my hands pushing his nightshirt off one shoulder, kissing the bared skin as he shuddered against me. Tracing a path from shoulder to collarbone, back to his mouth, my kisses grew more ardent as his lips parted to me.

One hand slipping inside his nightshirt, I pressed it flat to his breast, rubbing. As he moaned and pressed against me, my thumb stroked around his nipple, feeling it pucker and grow hard. Kissing a path downward, I found the sensitive flesh with lips and tongue. His muffled cry made me look up, smiling to see him with one forearm thrown over his mouth to stifle his exclamations of pleasure.

Ceasing my ministrations for the moment, I said, "Perhaps we should wait until we return to Baker Street."

Glaring up at me, a long arm shot up to drag me down to his mouth. "Not if you value your life," he declared, shifting so he hovered over me now.

My laughter died quickly, breath taken away by the look in his eyes. No lover had ever appraised me like that, as though my presence was as essential to them as breath. "Holmes…"

"Shh," he whispered, showing himself to be the quick student I had known he would be as he imitated my first explorations of his body.

If it grew cold in our little room, I was not aware of it, as we discovered each other, our bodies meeting and intertwining in that snug, warm bed under the eaves. Different, yet so alike, whose hand it was that stirred arousal, whose mouth coaxed the other to completion, could scarcely be sorted out as we shuddered against each other, passion spent and leaving us with but strength enough to curl together, still entangled, too moved for even words.

~*~

It was another day and night before we could start, once more, for London. Happily, we were well able to amuse ourselves in that time.

If Nell or Norris were aware of anything, no word was ever said.

the end

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by this poem:
> 
> Born of my voiceless time, your steps  
> Slowly, ecstatically advance:  
> Toward my expectation's bed  
> They move in a hushed, ice-clear trance.
> 
> Pure being, shadow-shape divine--  
> Your step deliberate, how sweet!  
> God!--every gift I have imagined  
> Comes to me on those naked feet.
> 
> If so it be your offered mouth  
> Is shaped already to appease  
> That which occupied my thought  
> With the live substance of a kiss,
> 
> Oh hasten not this loving act,  
> Rapture where self and not-self meet:  
> My life has been the awaiting of you,  
> Your footfall was my own heart's beat.
> 
> "The Footsteps," by Paul Valery; translated from the French by C. Day Lewis


End file.
